soulless
by glitter blizzard
Summary: You're going to die... does that worry you?


For Connect the Weasley's Challenge.

James/Lily - Listen.

* * *

You're going to die… does that worry you?

…

_Are you okay? _

_Am I?_

_I feel so cold. Am I dead?_

_Maybe I am. I should be._

_That would be okay._

…

'Tell the truth.' James demands, his eyes so dark and angry, like burning charcoals. I expect a flame to flicker any minute now, a spark of his impending explosive temper. Why is he so angry? I don't know. What truth does he want from me? I don't know this either. He expects an answer – I don't know the answer either.

It's a mind game of sorts; he will ask, and I'll not answer. He'll keep on asking, he'll keep on insisting that this is _not right. _What is wrong with me? Why won't I tell the truth?

...

_Tell the truth. Funny thing that, telling. I can tell plenty; a story, a tale, a dream, a lie even. But the truth? I don't know the truth. And it all comes down to this; telling the truth would be lying, and that's not telling the truth at all, is it? _

_So, in conclusion, my answer is this:_

...

'I don't know.' His eyes give off sparks. Ah, there it is. He's getting properly angry.

'How can you not _know_?' He's got this annoying habit of emphasizing on words when he's angry, like that's going to make them more meaningful than they really are. In reality, it makes him sound like a git. I tell him that much.

His eyes flash again. 'Don't try to change the subject. Tell me the truth. Why are you like this? What is wrong with you?'

...

_You see what I'm talking about? How do you answer this? What is wrong with me? Plenty, I think. There's plenty wrong, too much to really know at all. It's all a jumbled mess. I'm a mess, the kind of mess that's not really pretty or attractive and you just know it's not going to end well. I'm a train wreck._

_I'm probably going to take down someone with me. _

_There is always more than one passenger on the train express to destruction._

...

I sigh, a tired, exasperated sigh. 'I don't know, James. Why don't you leave me alone?'

'I'm worried.' He responds promptly. And he is. I know he is. He's my brother, it's normal for him to worry. It's like an instinct for him – it's innate for him to want to know what's wrong with me. He wants to help. He wants to _fix _whatever is wrong with me. He wants to do his big brother duty.

But there's too much for him to fix. He can't slap a smile on his face and tell me jokes and treat me well. That won't help. It really won't.

I'm just unhappy.

'I'm okay, James.' I say. Because, really, I don't know the truth, but I know the lie. The lie, the cover story is this; I'm okay, I'm just going through some stuff. Nothing serious, you shouldn't worry. I'll be okay.

But I won't be. I will inevitably crash with a bang; there will be fire, maybe a few victims. There will be definite crying. But there will be death. My death. It's like a dream. A bit morbid, I admit, but I did say I was messed up.

...

_You're probably asking yourself what made me like this, right?_

_Honestly, I don't know. It's like, one minute I was okay, and then I wasn't and then everything was wrong, and nobody seemed to notice._

_It was a quiet descend into the darkness. Quite a bit unlike me, to be honest._

_I've always been a little out there._

_..._

'I'm okay. I'm just going through some stuff. Nothing serious.' I smile at this, assurance that he doesn't need because he clearly doesn't believe me. My oldest brother seems to be the only one who sees that there's actually something seriously wrong with me. I wish he can tell me what it is. 'Honestly, James, everything's _fine._' I roll my eyes as I emphasis on the word, hoping the little jab will somehow distract him.

'Are you sure?' He asks me in a gentle voice. He stands from the red plush sofa and kneels in front of me, taking my hands in his. There's this really startling contrast between the texture and colour of our skin; his is warm and tan, but rough, like a boy's hands should be. A bit like him. Mine are pale, freckly, a little on the cold side. A bit like me.

Who says the eyes are the window to the soul?

'I'm sure.' I say, giving his hand a little squeeze. 'Don't worry.'

'I can't not worry. You're my baby sister.' He says, cracking a smile. He squeezes my hand back and stands up. 'I'll leave you alone now.' He says, but he gives me a serious look. 'Listen, if someone's bothering you I want you to tell me, okay? Please, Lily. I'm your brother. You can trust me with anything.'

'I know that.' I say gently. 'I'll tell you if something's bothering me. I promise.'

...

_I'm lying, of course. What do you expect? People like me aren't supposed to tell the truth. I'm pretty sure there's a rulebook somewhere saying that self-destructive people have to lie to hide their self-destructive behaviour. I mean, that's pretty basic, right?_

_People ask you things, and you answer with a lie. Lying is my truth. It's easier than saying "I don't know" and then having to face all the questions._

_I'm not making any sense, am I? I never do._

_..._

James nods and checks the time on his watch. 'Quidditch practice.' He says, a glimmer of excitement showing his eyes.

I smile, because I like seeing him happy. I'm not completely numb to other's people's feelings. Just to mine.

'All right. I'll see you later.'

James nods. 'You'll be all right, then?'

I smile. 'Of course. Don't worry.'

Pretty basic, indeed.


End file.
